


world was on fire

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Post Season 6, Sassy Bran, i think i covered the important stuff, my first work for jonsa, occasional humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Sansa loved Winterfell with its ancient walls and comforting presence over the Northern moors. She loved the snow that covered every inch of life in a gentle white sheet. She loved the people that bustled from place to place, busy with their own duties but kind enough to spare a smile and share a mug of ale. And most of all, she loved her family, the mess that they were. For even in the darkest days of winter, she could find a husband who loved her and children with bright, eager souls and call them hers.| the story of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark over twenty years |(a completely rewritten version with revised plot, still featuring actual puppy jon, slay-me-queen sansa, sassy bran, and inappropriate relative arya)





	1. part i - oathmaker

**Author's Note:**

> ayyyy so my first attempt at this was shit, so i fixed a pretty big problem with the plot and voila! hope this goes over better. find me on tumblr @wintermellons for updates and more. enjoy chapter one too!!! i've been working on this project for about ten months and i am finally getting it out there. please enjoy!  
> (warnings: rape mention, lots of swearing, a really light half-assed sex scene, and that's it i think)

I.

“Fuck,” says Sansa.

She stares at herself in the cold mirror illuminated by a mountain of candles. Her heart seems heavy in her chest. The circles under her eyes are darker, her pale skin is whiter, and her bones protrude in the most noticeable places- cheekbones, collarbone, and shoulders all looking more skeleton than flesh.

 _You’re alive,_ she reminds herself, _and you’re safe for now. Jon will keep you safe._

Her father had promised her something similar before he died. She can’t remember exactly, after several long years it was hard to remember what her father even looked like, but she can recall that he’d sworn to marry her off to a good, honorable man.

Sansa wonders if good people always broke their promises and bad people kept theirs. Ned Stark promised her a loving husband and she had none to speak of. But Ramsay had promised to kill her brother and now Rickon lies in the cold crypts, keeping company with shadows.

A sudden knock at the door startles her. “My lady, the king has called an emergency meeting of the small council. Your presence is requested.”

Sansa isn’t used to having Brienne back. She and Podrick had returned from the Riverlands three nights before. Jon had only been king for a week. No one in Winterfell knows exactly what they're doing. Most of the Northerners sulk in the courtyard and bring all their troubles to the great hall at supper. They always ask  _Jon_ what to do. _Jon is their leader. Jon will protect them. Jon will lead them through the Long Night._ For once, Sansa doesn’t mind the attention placed on her half-brother. It leaves her free to be unnoticed if she wishes, and she certainly wishes to be.

“My lady?”

“I’ll be there in a moment, Brienne,” she replies. Her voice sounded like gravel. Any fool could see that she had cried herself to sleep.

Every night is the same. Sobbing desperately as she clutches a pillow and pretends that it's a person. Sometimes she’ll imagine Arya, sometimes Margaery, sometimes Robb or even Jon. All the loneliness inside her has begun to ache.

 _Littlefinger wants her. He always had and he always will. She's beginning to lose her options._ Taking a steady breath, Sansa swings her cloak around her shoulders.

Brienne wears a knowing look on her face. Wishing that she hadn’t opened the door at all, Sansa tries to smile.

“I’m ready. Shall we go?”

“Lord Baelish was seen with you in the Godswood several days ago,” says Brienne. Sansa freezes in her tracks and digs her nails into her palms.

“You can’t say a word to anyone. Not one person, do you understand?” she hisses.

“I’m sworn to keep your counsel, my lady, I would never betray your confidence. I am, however, worried about your well being.”

With a heavy sigh, Sansa shakes her head. “I’m as safe as I can be. I don’t think Littlefinger would try anything now that I’m with Jon.”

“But if he asked you-”

“I wouldn’t.” She shivers as an icy draft sweeps through the hall. “I’d never marry him. Not after what he let Ramsay do. He’s as much of an enemy as the Boltons.”

Brienne bows her head. They walk to the council room in silence. Sansa is familiar with everyone on the council. Lord Manderly, Lord Glover, Lady Mormont, Ser Davos, Tormund, and Podrick are already seated at the table, with Jon at the end. Two empty seats are situated to his right.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Sansa says as she sits down next to Jon. He gives her a weary smile. No doubt he's as tired as her. The king’s duties often keep him awake until the small hours of the morning.

“Don’t worry. We weren't going to start without you,” he says. Sansa wishes she could appreciate the sentiment, but the back of her mind is screaming at her. _He had no idea how much danger they were in._

“Let’s bring the meeting to order. Is there any news from Castle Black?”

“None of consequence, your grace. Lord Commander Tollett says that his men are keeping watch day and night,” Davos says.

“And from White Harbor?”

“Weather’s a bit nasty, but all else will be well.” With a hearty smile, Lord Manderly takes a swig of ale.

“Good. There’s much to discuss. A raven from King’s Landing arrived today,” says Jon, placing a small scroll of parchment on the table. It's sealed with red wax and the Lannister sigil. Sansa feels her blood freeze.

“It’s from Cersei Lannister. Apparently she killed the king, the queen, and almost all of the important southern nobles. She’s put herself on the Iron Throne. As I understand it, that includes the North. There are several demands listed that we’re supposed to meet if we want to live.”

“She killed Margaery?”

He nods. “I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

Unable to form the words she's searching for, she merely bites her lip and bends her head. The idea of seeing Margaery Tyrell again had kept her alive for many days.

“What are the demands?” asks Lyanna Mormont.

“She wants me to give up the title of king and ride south with Sansa to bend the knee. We’ll have to surrender Winterfell to the Lannisters and face trial for high treason.”’

“Wait,” says Sansa, gripping the arms of her chair. “In the letter, what does she call me?”

Jon hesitates, which is the most infuriating thing about him. Even after she had shown him time after time that she was capable of enduring such great pain, he still tries to shelter her. With careful hands, he unfurls the paper.

“Sansa Bolton, Lady of the Dreadfort.”

Sansa bites her tongue as she retreats into her mind. The rest of the meeting passes without her noticing. She is far too focused on the great game they have landed in. Pieces are moving, people are taking sides, and all she knows was that the North would be affected by the moves _she_ makes.

“...and if that’s all then I think this meeting is closed. Thank you, my lords.”

While everyone else shuffles out of the chamber, Sansa turns to Jon and clasps her hands nervously.

“I need to talk to you about a very sensitive matter,” she says, a bit more stiffly than intended. Brienne leaves them alone and stands just outside the door.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks. His eyebrows knit together like they always do when he's concerned. _Just tell him, just tell him, just say it, get it over with…_

“I was in the Godswood a few days ago and Littlefinger. He didn’t exactly say it, but he wanted… he wanted to marry me.”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it, trying to figure out a way to respond. He may be good with a sword, but he's awful with words.

“Alright.”

“That’s your response? _Alright_?” She can feel her cheeks flushing, preparing for bitter humiliation. However, Jon frantically shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I promise! I want to help you, Sans. Whatever I can do. I can send him back to the Vale,” he says. “You only have to ask.”

Sansa rolls her eyes and crosses her arms defensively. “It’s never going to be that easy. He’ll take me as a bride or die trying.”

“That’s stupid.”

Jon’s expression is one of a child who insists upon having his way, or perhaps a stubborn pup. Sansa can’t help but laugh.

“You’re ridiculous, Jon Snow,” she mutters. He joins in her laughter, and soon they're in fits of giggles that echo off the cold walls.

 _Perhaps_ _they would be fine after all._

* * *

II.

With a happy flourish, Jon waltzes into Sansa’s chambers. She's sitting on her bed sewing a yellow flower onto a scrap of cloth. Several new projects have been piled up next to her. Now that she has access to more cloth, it's impossible for her to stop making new dresses, cloaks, and shirts. Her latest design is a dark violet dress with a plunging neckline.

“What’s gotten into you?” She says. He sets two packages on her lap.

“Happy nameday, Sansa!”

Her face breaks into a wide smile. “I didn’t think you’d remember.” She'd done her hair up specially that morning, twisted back in a simple, beautiful way that her mother had often worn.

“It’s Robb’s birthday I always forgot. And Brienne had to remind me, so thank her.”

“Can I open this?”

“Certainly.” She tears open the parchment wrappings and gasps. A length of beautiful white jacquard unfolds in her hands. Strands of silver and gold catch the light, bending like molten metal. It's mesmerizing and almost never-ending, making her feel as if she were walking between dreams.

“It’s _beautiful_ Jon, I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says.

“I think it looks nice with your hair. You could make a dress out of it,” says Jon. She has to smile at his eagerness to please.

The second gift iss n a wooden box. She fiddles with the latch and opens it carefully. It's a silver circlet shaped in uneven branch-like loops. Small metal roses in a dark blue color perch among the branches, along with five slightly larger grey roses in between.

“What does this mean?” she asks, willing her voice and hands to stay steady.

“All the proper laws are in order. Sansa Stark, you are the Queen in the North.”

She laughs aloud. The sharp sound startles both of them. _If her mother could see her now, what would she say_ ? From a young age, Sansa always knew that she would be a queen. It was the only thing promising to make her life worth something. As she got further away from King's Landing, she let herself believe that there would be no crown on her head. Yet here she was- nineteen years old, twice married, the queen of a kingdom that was completely and utterly doomed. She savors the odd satisfaction. _Propriety be damned._

“There’s another surprise, but we'll need to go get it,” says Jon.

“You’re impossible, Jon. What could it be?” He says nothing, only tossing her a cloak and retreating through the doorway. She follows him down to an empty room that used to belong to Robb. Warm firelight trickles out from underneath the door frame.

"What's in there?" she says nervously. He grins and opens the door.

“Well it’s about _time_ you showed up,” Bran Stark says, sipping a cup of tea.

“Happy nameday!” Arya Stark adds. “I would've gotten you a present, but Jon thought that my existence was enough of a gift. Isn't that right?”

“They both arrived this morning,” Jon tells her. Sansa is still frozen in shock.

“Oh look, we’ve paralyzed her. Good job,” says Bran. Even as he's sitting down, Sansa can tell that he's taller. Arya is wearing an old fur cloak and has a narrow sword strapped to her hip.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” whispers Sansa. Tears run freely down her face. Her sister rolls her eyes playfully and strides across the room, wrapping her in a hug.

“I promise I won’t leave you again,” she says.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too. More than you could know."

* * *

 III.

Feeling as though some fresh air was in order, Sansa walks through the courtyard after departing yet another council meeting. News of Daenerys Targaryen had reached the North. It makes her shudder to think of a woman riding dragons, burning cities to the ground. She had needed a break from the barrage of bad news.

Two little girls play in the snow by the stables. They're dressed in rugged wildling furs. At the sight of Sansa, they shy away.

“It’s alright,” she says, “I won’t hurt you.” They look at each other nervously. Sansa kneels down to their height and holds out a hand.

“My name is Sansa. What’s yours?”

“I’m Lonna,” says the taller of the two. “And that’s Aswyn.”

“Those are very pretty names. Where are your parents?”

“We don’t have a papa. Our mama died,” Aswyn says. She can't be more than six, but she has a beautiful complexion and posture that would make Septa Mordane proud.

“I’m very sorry. My mama and papa died too,” says Sansa.

“Uncle Tormund is taking care of us. Have you seen him?” Lonna asks.

“Tormund? He’s still with the king.”

“Are you the queen?” Says Aswyn. Sansa laughs.

“Yes, I am.”

“I want to be a queen someday, if it means I can be pretty like you,” Aswyn continues. “If you’re the queen, does that mean that you’re married to the king?”

“No, I’m his sister. I’ll be queen until he’s married, but that won’t be soon.”

“So then you won’t be queen?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s terrible! You have to be a queen!” Lonna insists. “You’re kissed by fire. It’s good luck.”

“I’m what?”

“Kissed by fire.” Sansa offers only a blank stare. “Your hair.”

Both girls hold little straw dolls. She wonders when they had last bathed, if they had ever bathed at all. Their clothes are getting small and beginning to fall apart at the hems. Worst of all, they've been taken from a home they would never see again, brought to a land where the inhabitants despised them, and left to grow up in a great, hostile world.

“Would you two like to be my ladies-in-waiting?” The question comes out of nowhere, but it makes perfect sense to her. Back in King's Landing, Varys had his network of little birds. Sansa would have to create her own flock if she wanted to keep playing the game.

“What does that mean?” Aswyn asks.

“It means that you’ll get a room in the castle and I’ll teach you all sorts of things like how to dance and sew, read and write and such. You’ll take care of important things like passing letters and introducing people who visit me. I can make you pretty dresses and we can ride horses together.”

“That sounds fun! Can we, Lonna?"

"I'd like to be a lady," Lonna says dreamily.

Sansa takes the girls back to her chambers. Ghost wis waiting for her, and graciously allows them to pet his soft snowy fur. She takes measurements for both of them and lets them choose fabric for new dresses (as it turns out, they have a deep affection for purple). They listen eagerly as she explains their duties. Lonna would send and receive messages and help Podrick with his daily errands, while Aswyn would help Sansa with small tasks like mending clothes and delivering them. As soon as they understand, Sansa sends them off to work while she begins cutting out the beginnings of two wine-colored gowns.

A week later, the door of her chamber bursts open and the wildling girls come running inside.

“Sansa, Sansa! You told us to tell you if we found something important, so we came as fast as we could,” Lonna says.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, we were down in the kitchens and Aswyn found this.” She places a small vial in Sansa’s hand. “It’s all empty, too.”

“We saw someone sneaking around. He looked scary,” says Aswyn. “This fell off of his cloak, I think.” She passes over a silver pin.

Sansa nearly drops it in horror.

“Brienne! Jon is in danger!” She throws her cloak over her shoulders and runs down the hall. A group of startled maids back away quickly. Down in the great hall, a gathering of lords is taking place. Jon sits by himself at the high table. A serving boy is pouring a cup of ale.

“ _Jon, no_!” she cries, running as fast as she can towards him. He pauses in confusion, giving her enough time to knock the cup out of his hands. It goes clattering to the ground as everyone murmurs to each other.

“Sans?”

“Someone’s trying to kill you,” she says loudly. Anger breaks out, ensued by people tossing out names of those they believe to be traitorous. Sansa ses a man in the shadows, wearing a dark cloak and a snakelike expression.

"Lonna and Aswyn found an empty vial of poison in the kitchens, along with _this_ pin. Both belong to Petyr Baelish."

"This is treason!" Wyman Manderly growls. He draws his sword. Several others do the same.

"The penalty for which is death," Lyanna Mormont adds. All attention turns to Jon and Sansa. His eyes ask a question and hers answer.

"Please take Lord Baelish outside," he says. "Podrick, get a block." Lady Mormont nods to her men, who brandish their weapons and surround Littlefinger. He glares at Jon with utter contempt. Sansa remembers a time when she was afraid of Petyr Baelish, and a time when she admired him. Now, he's just another pretender who had dreamed of sitting on a cold throne. 

"I am the Lord Protector of the Vale, your grace! You will find that I am not easily replaced. House Arryn would not stand for this injustice. If you kill me, your support from the Lords of the Vale will end."

Sansa shrugs. "Perhaps. And perhaps not. Lord Royce, I believe you were one of many lords who named my brother the King in the North, were you not?"

Yohn Royce bows. "Indeed, my lady." Sansa nods her gratitude.

"We value your loyalty. My father remembered you kindly from his days in the Eyrie. Since the Vale is now sworn to House Stark, I believe it would be within my rights to name you the new Lord of the Vale."

"Your grace does me a great honor," Lord Royce says. Sansa turns to Littlefinger.

"As you can see, my lord, everyone is able to be replaced. Take him outside." The Mormont men grab him and haul him out of the hall. Jon squeezes Sansa's shoulder and follows the rest of the crowd. She trails behind him, watching the reactions of several people around her. Most of them seem shocked at the turn of events.

Out in the courtyard, people gather to watch Littlefinger being thrown down. Podrick sets a block while Jon unsheathes Longclaw. There's a small tug on Sansa's skirts. Aswyn looks up at her with a confused expression.

"What's happening?"

Sansa remembers watching Ilyn Payne cut her father's head off as a girl of thirteen. Every detail is embedded in her memory. And even if the girls didn't know who Petyr Baelish was, no child should see such things.

"Lonna, take your sister and go back inside. I don't want you to watch this," she says. Lonna takes Aswyn's hand and the two scurry away.

“Lord Petyr Baelish. I, Jon Snow, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North sentence you to die. Would you speak a final word?”

Littlefinger raises his head and speaks directly to Sansa. She neither smiles nor glares. Her face is set in stone. Smiling women could charm a man, yet those who hid their emotions could kill more easily than a knife.

“I loved you, Catelyn. More than your Lord of the North ever did.”

Sansa lets her hand rest on Jon’s. “Please pardon me, your grace. I feel unwell.”

Jon gives her a worried glance but nods his approval. As she turns to leave she leans over and whispers in his ear.

“ _Make it quick._ ”

“Look back at me!” Littlefinger screams. Sansa walks faster, gripping her cloak. He continues to call for her, calling her a whore and a traitor. They're empty words from an empty man.

She hears the sound of Valyrian steel cutting through flesh and bone. For once, it brings her comfort.

* * *

IV.

“Oh, fuck you! You’re a dumb bitch, you know that?”

“I’m confused,” says Sansa, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “What exactly have I done?”

“You should’ve told me, for fuck’s sake! You know how much I wanted to cut off that prick’s head? Why does Jon get all the fun?” Arya huffs, kicking over a chair. “I take one nap and I miss an execution. I’m never going to sleep again.”

Sansa laughs, taking a small sip of tea. Having retreated to her quarters for the evening, a sense of relief and peace takes over. Lonna and Aswyn are currently looking through a book of children’s stories next to the hearth.

“Sansa, what does this say?” Lonna points to a phrase.

“ _Aegon fought valiantly upon his great dragon Balerion._ It means that Aegon was a brave warrior.”

“You should read the story of Nymeria the warrior princess,” says Arya. She flips to the correct page and points to a fading illustration. “She was a brave woman. I named my direwolf after her.”

Aswyn puffs her chest proudly. “My mother was a great warrior too. Her name was Karsi and she died fighting the White Walkers. No one could be braver than that.”

Arya laughs and lets the girls tell her stories about their mother. Sansa hears a light knock at her door and answers it.

“A letter for you, your grace,” says Podrick, handing her an envelope sealed with grey wax. She holds it up to the light, revealing the imprint of a kraken. She tears it open. If Theon was truly alive, she would have to find him. Both she and Bran owed him their lives.

 

_Lady Sansa,_

_It’s Tyrion. I apologize for the misleading seal. If a northerner caught you receiving a letter from the Lannisters it would cause a great deal of trouble for you and I wouldn’t want that. Don’t worry- Theon is safe. He and his sister are with us on Dragonstone. I suppose I should mention that I’m alive. There’s a very long story that you’d love to hear, but I want to keep this letter brief._

_I’m glad that you’re safe with your half-brother. But please listen to me- you cannot leave Winterfell. I am in the service of Daenerys Targaryen, who has appointed me her Hand of the Queen (a rather bold move after what happened last time, wouldn’t you say?). Any day now, we will attack King’s Landing. I expect Daenerys to be coronated shortly thereafter. For your own safety, stay in Winterfell. Do not allow the North to rise against her. Her dragons could destroy everything you hold dear. I will advocate for House Stark as long as I can, as will Theon._

_Send a raven if you can. I’ll write with any more news._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion Lannister_

 

She hurries over to her desk and begins to write a response.

 

_Lord Tyrion,_

_I am truly thankful that you are well. I feared the worst when I left King’s Landing. Thank you for the warning. We have no plans to go anywhere, as we are preparing for a war of our own. The days grow dark and winter brings its wrath in every wind. Please tell me what’s happening, for I have a kingdom of my own to protect now. Give my best to Theon._

_With my highest regards,_

_Sansa Stark_

 

“Lonna, could you send this for me?” she says, sealing the letter with a direwolf stamp. Lonna curtsies and rushes away to carry out the errand.

“I’m going to go find Jon. Howland Reed arrived this morning. He wanted to speak with us about something important,” says Arya.

“Go ahead. I’ll stay here. What damage could Howland Reed possibly do?” Sansa squeezes Arya’s hand and sits down next to Aswyn.

“Now, tell me that story about your mother.”

The young girl regales her with a story of a fiercely beautiful woman who lived beyond the wall. Although some details seem embellished, she's surprised how well Aswyn knew her mother. Sansa had been apart from her own for three years before the fateful event known as the Red Wedding. Her mind drifts off to some faraway place, wondering what the War of the Five Kings looked like from Catelyn Stark’s eyes.

The fire begins burning low. She yawns and rubs her temple.

“Go along to bed. Sweet dreams, Aswyn,” Sansa says. Aswyn curtsies and shuffles towards the door. When she opens it, Arya is standing outside. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are flushed in an angry pink hue.

“What’s the matter?” Sansa says, dreading the answer.

“We met with Howland Reed,” is Arya’s response as she strides over to her sister. “He told us the truth about Jon’s mother.”

Her heart is pounding. “And?”

“It was Lyanna. She made Father promise to protect her son. That’s why he raised Jon as his bastard.” Her voice wavers. “He’s still a Stark, no matter what anyone says. I’ll kill them if they say he’s a-”

“Yes, he’s a Stark,” says Sansa, taking Arya's hand. She feels a million emotions at once. But strangest of all, the only one that seems to matter is relief. _Jon wasn’t her brother. Why did that make her happy? What could she want from that heart-wrenching piece of news?_

And then the dull jealousy sets in. Jon is part Targaryen. Not Ned Stark’s son, trueborn or otherwide. And yet, the Northern lords would still believe that Jon was more of a Stark than Sansa ever was. She tries to swallow the sour taste in her mouth.

She had seen where jealousy took people. It swept them into a dark sea and spat them out on a throne made of a thousand cold blades.

* * *

V.

Sansa, at many times in her life, had been silent while the world roared around her. As she sits at the round table, scraping her nails against the dark wood, it seems that for the first time, the world echoed what she did.

“I still don’t know what the fuck’s happening,” growls Tormund. No one chimes in. Jon is still as pale as snow. Howland Reed sits next to Meera and Bran, looking as if he had made the worst mistake in the world. Even Lyanna Mormont, who was always ready with a fiery comment, bites her tongue.

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Jon is king because the Northerners think he’s a good man and he’s Ned Stark’s son. Lord Reed and Bran have told us that Jon is not Ned Stark’s son. He’s Ned Stark’s nephew. His real father was the prince of the Seven Kingdoms and a Targaryen. So while he might be the son of a Stark, he’s also part of the house that the North hates the most and a potential king of all of Westeros.” Her voice lays flat and unmoving. “Does that make sense?”

“Aye, in words. Your southern customs won’t ever make much sense.”

“What are we doing here?” Jon snaps, breaking his silence. Her neck cracks as she turns her head towards the end of the table.“Winterfell belongs to Bran. We’re wasting time.” Sansa glares at him from across the table. Everyone’s attention turns to her brother.

“Well _I_ don’t want it,” Bran says, as if he were being offered a three-legged horse. “Sansa can have it.”

“You’re Ned Stark’s last living son. Legally, your claim to the North is the strongest,” Davos says.

“I don’t want to be the king. I don’t even want to rule Winterfell. Northerners follow strength, experience, and honor. Arya and Sansa-”

“Please don’t drag me into this,” Arya said. “I’d sooner gut myself with Needle than wear some stupid crown. I’m seventeen years old, I’ve never fought a proper battle, and I’m one of the least honorable fools in Westeros.” She leans back in her chair with a dramatic sigh.

“If Bran doesn’t wish to be king, then Sansa should inherit the North. As eldest daughter, it is her right,” Brienne says with a coolness that only she could possess. All eyes turn to Sansa.

“Perhaps I’d consider it if the people would support me, but they wouldn’t,” she says. “Nobody cares that I’m a Stark, they only care that I was married to a Lannister and a Bolton. I would be expected to marry a stranger and hand over my power in a second.”

“You’re already the queen, though,” Lyanna Mormont says.

“Jon is the king because I _let_ him. Winterfell is mine by right, but I didn’t claim it. And whatever position I have is only given because Jon gives it. My power comes from him and his comes from me. Without each other’s support we’re useless,”

“And there’s our third option,” says Bran. Again, the world goes quiet as Sansa’s mind reels to understand what her brother has just implied.

“What?” she chokes out.

“No,” Jon says immediately.

“It’s the only way to ensure complete control of the North. Jon has the support of the lords. Sansa has the name.”

“Bran, stop.”

Sansa’s head is still racing. She's back in the same mindset she had in King’s Landing- every path and option laid out in front of her with a bombardment of scenarios tied to each one.

“It does make sense,” Ser Davos says. For the first time, Jon stares directly at Sansa. He's inviting her, almost _daring_ her to say something.

“Would you consider it, Jon?”

“You’d want this?” They're practically glowering at each other.

“I didn’t exactly plan on being in this situation, but given the options, what choice do I have?”

“You’re my-”

“Don’t do that.” She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Please, Jon, maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible.”

“I won’t dishonor you,” he says, pulling his hand away as if her touch cut him to the bone. Sansa’s back straightens as her gaze bores into him.

“Would you rape me, then?” Her nails dig into the table. “Would you beat and cut me? Shame me, humiliate me, make me turn against everyone and everything I love? I’ve been treated in the worst ways possible. I don’t want to marry you for honor, Jon Snow, I want to marry you because if I don’t, I may as well throw myself from the top of the Wall.”

The silence that follows wis louder than the riots in the streets of King’s Landing. Even Lyanna Mormont looks at the ground. Sansa maintains her gaze.

Jon looks up at her. His beautiful brown eyes, the ones that remind her of their (no, _her_ ) father, are brimming with tears. She feels her heart break with his. Perhaps they would be a stained-glass window like the ones in the Red Keep, made out of so many shattered pieces put together to create something even more beautiful.

“You’re right.” Jon says it like he's admitting defeat. She opens her mouth and closes it again, determined not to cause pain through her frustration.

“Thank you, Jon.”

He leaves the chamber without another word. Sansa excuses herself a moment later. Her heart is beating out an anxious rhythm while her mind becomes a hurricane of thought.

There are letters to read and papers to attend to. She has people to care for and a kingdom to run. Instead, she gazes into the fireplace until yellow fades to black and she drifts into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

VI.

Once again, Sansa wakes screaming. She claps a hand over her mouth, accidentally clawing her cheek in her panic. The scars on her back and thighs are too vivid and fresh.

Podrick follows her a few steps down the hall, but quickly retreats as she waves him away. There will be no comfort in her own bed. Sanctuary can only come in someone else’s. She knocks quickly on the door and is surprised when it opens a second later. There are dark circles under Jon’s eyes. He rubs his chest right over his heart- where a dagger had once been.

“Can’t sleep,” they say at the same time. Jon steps aside and lets her into his chambers. By the hearth, orange light flickers off of Ghost’s white fur as he naps. Disregarding all propriety, she sets her shawl on his desk. Her nightgown is thin but she doesn’t care. If Jon wants to look, he would see the ghost of a girl who believed in life.

“You’re a good person, Sansa.”

“I want to believe that.” She coughs and wipes her face. “We all have to convince ourselves that we’re good and free and _alive,_ but that doesn’t mean it’s true.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Jon offers, but she grips his arm.

“You’ll sleep in the bed with me. I don’t want- I _can’t_ be alone.”

Even though they end up crying until they sleep, Sansa wakes feeling oddly at peace. Her hand had become intertwined with Jon’s. When it comes time for them to part, she's haunted by the ghost of his presence.

The nightly visits quickly become habit.

“I’ve got an idea,” she says to Jon as they lay in bed on a cold, windy night. “I think you should make Ser Davos your hand.”

“Sansa, it’s a good idea, but the Northern lords won’t like it.

“I don’t care what they like anymore. None of them fought with us against Ramsay. Davos was with us the whole time. Show them what their loyalty can be rewarded with, and they’ll want to be loyal.” She squeezes his hand.

Jon smiles at her. “You really are the smartest person I know.”

As it would happen, Ser Davos Seaworth is more than honored to receive the position. They laugh about it later, recalling his shocked expression. He had nearly fallen over in surprise.

_"You’ll come again tonight?”_

" _Yes, I will.”_

It's past midnight when Sansa slides into bed next to him. He hadn’t heard her open the door or set her flickering candle on the table, and can’t even recall waking up. The only thing that seems to matter is a smooth hand running down his arm and wrapping around his fingers.

“Sansa, whaz’ happening?” he groans.

“I had a nightmare.” Her breath tickles the coarse hair on his chin as she speaks. Every word touches him and sinks deep within his skin. _That was the manner of her beauty,_ he thinks dreamily. _She didn’t just possess it, she exerted it as well._

“‘S alright. Just a dream,” he says. Sansa moves his hand so that his arm is draped around her waist. It's an innocent gesture and scandalous at the same time, sending shivers down her spine. Jon, who is still more than half asleep, pulls the blankets and furs around them and holds her close.

“Go to sleep, Sans. I’ll protect you.”

She leans forward and kisses his cheek hesitantly. He wants to believe that it's no more than a cautious step into a river, that they won’t dishonor Ned and Catelyn by being wanton and lewd.

“What are you thinking of?” Sansa asks. She's so close to him, he could move his head just a little and kiss her. Jon wonders what her lips taste like, what her skin smells like, what kind of sounds she would make if he slips his hand between her thighs.

“Nothing,” he replies, and dislikes the feel of the word on his tongue. “Not nothing. You.”

“Mmm?”

“You’re wearing clothes, aren’t you?”

Her laugh is like little bells. “Yes, Jon Snow, I’m wearing clothes. You didn’t think I was here to seduce you, now, did you?”

“Might’ve.”

They grin at each other mischievously. He can feel goosebumps under her paper-thin nightgown. The sudden realization that he had never experienced anything like it before hits him like a bolt of lightning. Blushing cheeks, soft touches- he wants all of that with _her._

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. Sansa isn’t as taken aback as he feared she would be.

“Yes,” she says, “if it please you.”

“It would,” says Jon, leaning forward and connecting their lips. She tastes like lemon cakes and apple cider, mint and rosemary. He wonders at how perfect she is. She could drive a dagger into his heart and he’d still be in awe of her beauty.

Sansa’s breath hitches as Jon lets his hand wander under her nightgown. Her skin is as smooth as silk ribbons. He kisses her longingly, hopelessly, with every ounce of love in his heart. _Fuck the gods,_ he thinks, _fuck the rest of the world, and fuck the millions of people who died thinking that they would somehow save that world. They're the only two people that matter._ Selfish, arrogant, careless. Jon is certain that he's losing the game of thrones, the game for which Sansa has memorized each move. It's alright. As long as she doesn’t stop kissing him, he’d be the happiest man in the world.

“Sansa Stark.” It takes Jon a moment to realize that he had spoken.

“Yes, Jon Snow?” She brushes her fingers over his face, tracing the little lines that had been embedded into his skin.

“I love you,” he says. Sansa’s smile could light up the long night and melted the wall. Her eyes gleam with a gentle joy that fit her better than a crown.

“I love you too,” she says, then giggles. “Sorry. It’s just funny. I’ve never said that before.' Her eyes are cloudy- not with tears, but with a sort of amused heartache that makes him think of roses in rain.

He pulls her closer and kisses her again. “It’s an honor to be loved by you, Sansa Stark.”While the snow falls quietly outside, they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

VII.

Arya adjusts her skirts for the fifth time. “I hope you’re happy. Gods be good, this’ll be the last time you ever see me in a dress.” The dress in question is hardly the worst case scenario for her. It's a dark blue cotton with long sleeves, a bit below knee length. A silver direwolf brooch is pinned on her belt, and she sports a new fur cloak. Her hair is loose and wavy. There's a bit of Lyanna Stark in everything she does, though the elegance and good manners are certainly not a shared trait.

“It’s not a proper gown, so stop complaining,” Sansa says with a huff of annoyance. “Your Gendry would like it.”

“He’s not _my_ Gendry. I never should've told you about him."

“Well he’s your _something._ You never shut up about that boy.” She fixes a few strands of her sister’s hair.

“Why are you so worried about me? It’s _your_ wedding day! Gods, you must be scared,” says Arya. Sansa doesn’t reply, but gives her a pointed look.

“Which part?” Arya asks, stepping aside so she can see herself in the mirror. “The wedding or the bedding?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re Sansa Stark and you’re not scared of anything. Let’s go, they’re waiting for us.”

The walk to the godswood is cold and quiet. Sansa wishes for her dead family to appear among the ghostly trees. Her mother and father would be standing together as they always did, hand in hand while trying not to shed too many tears. Rickon was next to them. He wore a new set of clothes, a happy grin, and was scratching Shaggydog’s ears.

Robb would be leaning against a tree, his hair covered in snowflakes like it was when he hugged her goodbye for the last time. _Look at my little sister, all grown up. Snow better keep his hands where they belong,_ he might say. Sansa wonders if her brothers and parents were watching from some distant heaven.

She wishes for her family, for Lady, for Theon, for Tyrion, and for Margaery. And her nice fur cloak. She wishes it weren't so cold.

The snow clings to her clothes as it fell, blending in with the white fabric. Even thinking of the hours she had spent embroidering it makes her fingers ache. The fabric is white and silver jacquard. It shimmers in different light, making her seem like sunrise on the ocean.

 _She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is her home. She isn’t scared._ As she steps lightly along the snowy path, she can see dozens of eyes staring at her. It comforts her to know she can name some of the people at her own wedding. There's jolly old Wyman Manderly next to Lyanna Mormont. Brienne and Podrick stand together, smiling proudly at her. Meera Reed stands close to Bran in his wheelchair. The giant weirwood tree is illuminated by candles and lanterns which only made the leaves look redder.

Underneath the sprawling branches, Jon waits for her in his crown and cloak. She had promised herself a hundred times that she wouldn’t cry, yet the expression on his face makes her knees shake. It's the way any woman wants to be looked at- like she's the most priceless jewel, the prettiest flower in the garden, and the most spectacular storm that had ever swept across the earth.

Bran squeezes her hand as she stands next to him. His dark hair is freshly combed. She hopes that maybe she and Jon would have a little boy who looked just like him. And perhaps there would be a girl who was like Arya in spirit, running amuck through the courtyard and chasing Ghost in circles. Most of all, she envisions a handsome little boy named Eddard and a sweet, happy girl named after her mother who looked like-

“Sansa?”

She looks up, confused by the sudden intrusion into her thoughts. “What?” She hears a snort and a giggle, followed by Arya’s muttered comment of, _“Fuck, this is already going terribly.”_

“I asked if you were ready, Sansa,” Bran repeats. She blushes furiously and nods, avoiding eye contact with anyone in general. Ser Davos Seaworth steps forward, freshly clothed in a cloak she had made for him specially.

“Who comes before the old gods this night?” he asks, beginning the ceremony. He reminds her of old Maester Luwin with his wise voice and comforting smile.

“Sansa, of the house Stark, comes here to be wed,” says Bran. “Who begs her hand?” Sansa ignores the murmurs that most likely question the change of phrasing. She's no longer a prize to be won or a gift to be given. The crowd hushes as he takes two slow steps towards her. He's wearing the same fur cloak she had given to him in Castle Black. No crown adorns his head, but he looks like the perfect image of a king.

“Jon Snow, son of Lyanna Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North,” he says. Their eyes meet, and he winks ever so slightly.  “Who gives her hand?”

“Brandon Stark. Prince of Winterfell, and her favorite brother,” says Bran. Several people, including Jon and Sansa, laugh quietly.

“Lady Sansa, will you take this man?” Ser Davos intones.

“Yes,” she says quickly. Bran taps on her wrist.

“You have to say-”

“Yes, I take this man,” she amends.

“Then in the eyes of gods and men, let these two souls be joined as one.”

Bran relinquishes his hold on her. Sansa reaches out and takes Jon’s arm with a delicate grip. Casting all propriety aside, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her. Arya surely has an opinion on such an action but Sansa can’t care less.

“ _I l_ _ove you_ ,” Jon murmurs onto her lips. One of his hands is definitely _not_ on her waist.

“ _I love you too,_ ” she says.

“I’m hungry! Let’s eat!” Arya declares loudly. The crowd immediately murmurs their agreement.

With their fingers intertwined, Jon and Sansa lead the way back to the great hall. Despite winter’s harsh winds, it's warm and cozy inside. Mugs of ale and glasses of wine are served, along with lemon cakes. A stable hand, one of the blacksmiths, and two squires strike up a familiar tune. Sansa grins and holds out a hand to her husband.

“Dance with me,” she demands.

“I don’t know how,” Jon says. She rolls her eyes and takes a long swig of ale.

“Get off your brooding ass, Jon Snow! Dance with me.”

She would remember it in a blur of colors. Orange for the candles, white for her dress and the blizzard outside, and brown for Jon’s leather jerkin. Her vision is clouded, whether by exhaustion or alcohol, she can’t quite tell. The song changes and Sansa partners with Arya, who turns out to be quite nimble on her feet. Eventually, she and Jon find each other and dance along to the next few songs.

Lord Manderly clangs his tankard on the table. “A toast!” He declares. “To the newlyweds. May their reign be long and their home be happy.” A cheer of assent rings through the hall. Arya climbs on a table and raises her mug.

“To my sister, the bride. She might be a pain, but she’s got more wits than everyone in this room put together. The Queen in the North!”

“ _The Queen in the North!"_  Jon kisses her cheek as the Northerners salute her. She barely hears his whispered words over the roar in the hall.

“ _I_ _f my lady would allow it, I’d like to tear that dress off her_.”

Sansa inhales sharply and tries to hide the deep blush spreading over her cheeks. The announcement of their departure is made shortly thereafter, and they leave the hall with Northerners still laughing and dancing merrily.

When they arrive in the shelter of the lord’s chambers. Jon closes and locks the door while Sansa goes straight to the pitcher and goblets. Drops of wine splatter across the table as she pours, leaving bold purple splotches against the wood.

“Do you want me to undress?” she asks.

“You know I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” says Jon.

“You don’t have to look,” she says quickly, “if you don’t want to. You can think of someone else and I can keep my smallclothes on-”

“Of course I want to look at you,” he says like it's the most stupidly obvious fact in the world. “I wouldn’t want to look at anyone _but_ you.”

“There are marks,” she adds. Jon smiles sadly.

“Scars won’t make me love you any less. I have them too.”

“Jon, I-”

“If you don’t want to do this, we can wait. It’s up to you, sweetling,” he says. Sansa fidgets awkwardly.

“I do. I just… might not be very good.”

“We’ll learn together, then.”

He makes sure to kiss every scar and silvery line on her body. Her eyes are watery when he thrusts into her, but her tears become soft laughter and muffled groans. He whispers sweet words into her ear and doesn't complain when her fingernails leave red lines on his back. They come together, calling each other's names in a soft hymn.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” she murmurs as he kisses her neck. Savoring each other’s presence, they lean together under a cotton sheet. Jon absentmindedly traces his hands over her shoulders while she fiddles with a few loose threads on a pillow.

“Feel like what?”

“Like… I’m drowning, but in a good way.”

“I’ll make you feel good anytime you want, sweetling,” he says. One of his fingers curls around a strand of her hair. “Gods, you’re perfect. You don’t even know how beautiful you are.”

Sansa blushes and settles her head onto his shoulder. “Perhaps you should tell me, then.”

“I’d do anything for you, Sansa, but you’d rather see me dance naked through the courtyard than recite poetry.”

“Is that an offer?”

“You win. Just give me a minute.” He rolls on top of her and steals a kiss. Sansa laughs as he makes his way down her neck, breasts, and stomach.

“What in the world are you doing?”

Jon gives her a lopsided grin. She feels her heart skip several beats. His head is just below her navel.

“Shh, love. I’m going to write you a poem.”

“Jon, I don’t know- _oh_!”

* * *

VIII.

Another arrow hits the wooden target with a _thud._ Arya flashes a smile at her work.

“Aren’t you supposed to _aim_?” Bran says.

“No, you’ll tense up the muscles in your arms if you aim. Just draw and release,” says Arya. She repeats the process and gestures to the growing number of arrows stuck in the center of the target.

“You didn’t know that? You must’ve been a terrible archer,” Meera Reed quips. Bran shakes his head and flips a page in an old book he’d found in the library. Grinning at her brother and sister, Sansa brushes a few loose strands of her hair away from her face. The snow falls gently around them in a rosy grey twilight haze.

“You look good. Jon’s treating you well?” asks Bran.

“Of course he is.”

“I'm glad. You should be happy.” She nods, looking over the lively courtyard.

"We're all happy for now."

"There's a war to come. You know how hard it's going to be. D'you think we're ready?" Sansa sighs. She doesn't want to imagine the army of the dead or the dragon queen. Her entire family is in the same place, healthy and alive. That's all that matters to her. She tells herself to let go of the paranoia that controls her. _Life could be good,_ she thinks, _and people can be kind._

"We'll face it together. Wolves are strongest in winter." Bran smiles at that. 

Jon is walking towards them, wearing the same bashful smile that makes her heart sing and dance. At his side, Ghost trots along with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. They're an odd pair but a good one. Sansa rubs her abdomen where a new life is growing. _She'll tell him later_ , she decides. They can be just Jon and Sansa for a little while longer.

They have time, and there is still hope.


	2. part ii - the long night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy i'm back! also it's 3 in the morning because i have been working ass over tit to get this shit legit. this is definitely a shorter chapter, and probably not as interesting, but it's going to set up a lot of shit to happen in the next. but there are good parts that i hope will be well received.  
> thanks for all your patience, because i am really bad at sticking to a schedule. but hey, my finals went well. i technically passed my chem final, which was hell (highest score in the class was a heckin 72). turn up for 67.8!  
> warnings: language, a bit of suggestiveness and i think that's it.  
> (ALSO GUYS i am so tired and making up some of this as i go. i am not sleeping. if it's not good, just stay with me cause school ends on thursday and after that i have all the time in the world to make chapter three better).

I.

Sansa laughs with joy as Jon sweeps her off her feet and twirls her around. The snow and her hair spin together in the air. He's talking nonstop, rambling about how much he loves her, how excited he is, how he can’t possibly wait _nine whole months_ to be a father.

“I love you, Sansa, I love you so fucking much, you don’t even understand. You’re… we’re going to have a family. I can’t wait, sweetling.”

“You won’t have to wait as long as you think,” she says. “I’m already three months along.”

Just when Sansa thought he couldn’t possibly be more delighted, Jon kisses her fiercely with a smile on his lips. He places a protective, gentle hand on her stomach. She leans into him, savoring the sweet taste of happiness.

“You’re perfect,” he says, “and you’re beautiful. And we’re all going to be together. I swear by all the gods, I will never let anything hurt us. You’re mine and I’m yours. I love you, Sans. I love you, I love you, I love you.” She wipes tears of joy off of his cheeks and kisses him again.

“Hey! What’s happening? I told you Snow, keep your hands off my sister when you’re in company,” says Arya. She strides up to them with a curious gaze.

“Shut up, Arya,” says Jon with a wicked grin. “You’re going to be an _aunt_.”

Arya’s smirk disappears and is replaced with sheer horror. “No! Ew, that means- actually, I don’t want to think about that. I’m happy for you, but if any child of yours calls me _Aunt_ Arya, I’ll knock your heads together.” She sighs and offers Sansa a hug, which is quickly received.

“I’m going to go find Bran and make some bets. I think it's going to be a girl. Plenty of time for boys later." She winks playfully.

Sansa and Jon had barely noticed Ser Davos until he clears his throat. “Apologies, your graces. I’ve called the council to deal with _this_.” He holds out a letter that had been stamped with the Targaryen sigil. Jon sighs and presses a chaste kiss to Sansa’s cheek.

“Are you with me?”

“I always am,” she says. He takes her arm and they walk back to the keep through the snow. Once they 're inside, they turn down the hall and enter the council chamber. Everyone is assembled in their usual positions, except for Arya, Bran, and Meera. Howland Reed is the newest addition to the council. His place is next to Brienne, who is trying (and failing) to avoid Tormund’s gaze. Jon pulls out Sansa’s chair for her before sitting down.

“Let’s bring this meeting to order. Davos, what news of Daenerys?”

“From what I hear, she’s taken King’s Landing. Euron Greyjoy’s fleet was almost entirely obliterated, and the Lannisters have fled to Casterly Rock. This letter arrived in the morning,” says Davos, holding out the scroll. Sansa plucks the paper from his hand and smooths it out. She slowly read it aloud.

 

_To Jon Snow, Lord of Winterfell,_

_You will be glad to hear that Cersei Lannister has been killed. During our siege of King’s Landing, she was found in the throne room, having been strangled to death. House Targaryen has reclaimed the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. I am, however, informed that these kingdoms may no longer include the North. When I set out to take back my birthright, I do not believe I intended to take only part of it._

_Lord Tyrion, the Hand of the Queen, holds House Stark in a very high regard. I attribute this to his previous marriage with Lady Sansa. I will admit that I did not think the northerners would rally together after their defeat in the War of the Five Kings. Now I find myself faced with a decision that may threaten both of our kingdoms if I choose incorrectly._

_Similar to the agreement I have made with Queen Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, I will allow the North its independence from any southern crown. In return, the Northerners will respect the rectitude of the South. Any act of violence will be considered an act of war._

_As for these rumors that say you are the son of Lyanna Stark and my brother, Prince Rhaegar, I will have to make another demand. You must forswear your claim to the Iron Throne, as well as any claim your heirs might have. You must also renounce Rhaegar Targaryen as your father and live as the bastard son of Lyanna Stark. I have no doubt that the Northerners will continue to support your claim so long as you are married to Lady Stark._

_We will speak more on this matter when I arrive in Winterfell. As I understand, a great war is beginning._

_Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name_

 

“I don’t trust her,” says Jon. He's donned his usual expression, which is somewhere between pensive, concerned, and brooding.

“Good. You’re learning,” says Sansa, sliding the letter back to him. “If she thinks she’s being subtle, she’s an idiot. This is a threat.”

“She says she’s coming to Winterfell. We need to know if we should prepare defenses,” Lord Glover says, "and if we should start making allies in the South. There must be other houses that resist her reign."

Howland Reed turns to Sansa. "My queen, you might consider pressing a claim on the Riverlands. Your brother Robb was the King of both the North and the Trident. The lords of the rivers would certainly support you in memory of your mother."

Sansa rolls the words through her head. "My uncle, Lord Edmure, is still alive. If he has not turned against his family, I may ask him to pledge to House Stark, as the Vale has done." 

“Her interest is in taking Westeros as a whole. If we know anything about Targaryens, we can expect her to ask us to bend the knee,” says Lady Mormont. “I don’t think she’d be stupid enough to attack us.”

“We will not be kneeling to Daenerys Targaryen. Westeros is being threatened by death itself. If she wants to rule it, she must defend it first,” Sansa says. She taps her nails on the wooden tabletop anxiously.

“Daenerys will always be threatened by us. Our course of action will be to prove that the North is worthy of its independence. We should follow her wishes and see where that takes us. Another war is something we cannot afford,” says Jon, looking to Sansa for approval.

“I agree. With an heir, we will be even stronger,” she says. He beams at her like a golden ray of sun. Brienne picks up on the hint first, and offers her congratulations. After what seems like ages of accepting good wishes from the council members, Jon and Sansa make their escape. 

"Where are we going?" she giggles as he guides her through the halls. They end up back in their chambers. Ghost is in his usual spot by the fire, paying them little mind.

"Sans, let me taste you," he says, hanging his cloak by the door. She gasps, as if scandalized.

"Oh Jon, that's  _wicked_ ," she says. He laughs as she lies back on the bed and lets him roll up her skirts.

"You're already pregnant, love. What's the worst that could happen?"

She sighs, bathing in the warm feeling of him kissing the inside of her thighs.  _Wicked indeed._

* * *

II.

“Your grace, some letters for you.” Lonna curtsies and hands her three envelopes. Sansa examines them and frowns. Each is clearly addressed to her- the words _Queen Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell a_ re scrawled across each in different kinds of messy handwriting. However, the sigils adorning the wax seals are unexpected.

The one on top is blue with the Tully sigil. She pries it open and holds it up to the light.

 

_Your grace,_

_Please do not think badly of me. No doubt you have heard of the dishonorable things I have done for my own survival. We share in common the loss of my sister, your mother. The words of house Tully - family, duty, honor - tell me that I must commit myself to protecting Cat’s children._

_Queen Daenerys has liberated Riverrun and restored me to power. My wife Roslin and our son Edwyn are both safe as well, having been freed from the Freys. Word has reached us of the war in the North. House Tully will stand behind the King and Queen in the North as it did before. We march to Winterfell immediately._

_With sincerity,_

_Edmure Tully_

 

So the Riverlands are safe again. Sansa had never met her uncle, but she has heard of him. Brienne had described the events in Riverrun when she returned. She sets aside the paper and opens the next. It's sealed with black ink and a kraken seal.

 

_Sansa,_

_I heard you were safe in Winterfell with Jon. You have no idea how happy I am that you’re alive. I wish I could’ve kept you safe, but I know that Jon will take care of you better than I ever could._

_After I left you in the North, I joined my sister Yara at Pyke. Our uncle Euron usurped her and we had to escape, but we joined forces with Daenerys and took King’s Landing with her dragons and our ships. If I could’ve gone North immediately, I would’ve, but the queen is still suspicious of my loyalty to House Stark._

_From what I can tell, Daenerys isn’t mad. She might be demanding, but I’m sure there’s some sort of logic behind what she does. I’m not worried about her destroying Westeros. I’m just worried that she’ll try to control the North. If you and Jon ask for independence and do everything that she asks in return, I believe you will be safe. Yara and I requested independence for the Iron Islands and it was granted. I don't think that Daenerys is truly a bad ruler._

_Please tell me what’s happening in the North. It was my real home, even if I never realized that._

_Yours,_

_Theon_

 

Sansa immediately reachs for parchment and a quill, but restrains herself. Sometimes she could forget that there was time to spend . Life wasn't always counting down seconds until the next disaster. She tears her thoughts away from Theon and opens the last letter, which bears the Lannister sigil.

 

_Lady Sansa,_

_I hear you’re married again. How shocking, when our marriage was pure delight! I do hope you are happy. If anyone deserves to be at peace, it would be you. I read Daenerys’ letter before she sent it. My advice would be to follow every command. She is firm, but she is not a dictator. As long as I am advising her, she will not resort to violence against the North._

_My brother Jaime and I will both go North when the time comes, but it would be in everyone’s best interest if we stayed out of Winterfell. Tensions between our houses run particularly high, despite our common enemy._

_Reply soon. I can only imagine your struggles. If you need anything, just ask. I owe you for your kindness and tolerance towards me, and my brother is alive thanks to your mother. As they say, a Lannister always pays his debts._

_Tyrion_

 

Unable to restrain herself, she whips out a quill and begins replying. To Edmure she writes a short letter that thanks him and wishes him safe travels. It has no familial warmth, but no veiled anger either. She replies to Theon next, and sums up everything that had happened from the moment they parted. It's impossible to find the right words to express her gratitude.  _Thank you for saving my life. With love, Sansa Stark._ She pauses for a few minutes to think about what to say to Tyrion.

 

_Tyrion,_

_If only I hadn't been such a silly girl, perhaps we could've lived together in drunk, lustful harmony. Unfortunately for you and me, Jon and I are quite happy together. We're expecting our first child shortly. He or she will be sure to call you Uncle Tyrion._

_Brienne holds Ser Jaime in the highest regards. If you come North, you would both be welcome as guests (perhaps discreet guests, but such are the circumstances). As for needing things, I certainly wouldn't mind if a shipment of lemons arrived in Winterfell. Please tell me if I can repay your generosity in any way._

_Thank you for your advice. When the war is over, I hope the Lannisters of Casterly Rock and the Starks of Winterfell can be allies._

_Sansa_

 

She seals all three letters with the imprint of a direwolf. "Lonna, could you send these? And ask Aswyn if she'd like blue or white details on her dress."

"Yes, your grace," says Lonna, taking the pieces of folded parchment. She skips away, humming happily to herself. Sansa returns to the pile of papers on the desk. There are trade negotiations, oaths of fealty, and even marriage proposals. The proposals are all meant for Arya - many lords began seeking her sister once they heard of Sansa's marriage. Arya had no interest in them and let anyone read them for pure amusement. 

The door creaks open and Jon comes inside. 

"I'm going to sleep," he says without preamble. 

"Why's that?"

"I'm so fucking tired, that's why. D'you know what happened today? Arya nearly put an arrow through my skull. She didn't see me because she doesn't wait and  _aim_ ," he says, tossing aside his muddy clothes and changing into clean ones.

"Oh gods, don't ever try to spar with her. One wrong step and she'll run you through with that metal stick of hers," Sansa quips. Jon laughs and kisses the back of her head before collapsing into bed. 

"Good night, Sans."

"Good night, Jon."

Ghost enters the room a few moments later. He regards Jon, who is sprawled out under five layers of blankets, and Sansa, who is chuckling at a hideously written poem by some lord of the Vale, intended for Arya's eyes. She looks up and sees the direwolf give her a look that's so clear she doesn't have to wonder what it means.

_People can be terribly confusing._

* * *

III.

“Hey! Are you paying attention? Gods almighty, you’re thick,” Arya snaps. Jon shakes himself out of a love-induced stupor.

“Yeah, of course I am. Keep your shield up,” he says. Arya shakes her head in disbelief.

“I don’t have a shield.”

“Huh? Right. I meant-”

“Oh, shut up. You’re not very good at lying.” She sets her new sword aside and chugs down the contents of a waterskin. Jon had insisted that she start learning how to use a larger blade. Needle was a good fit for her, but in a duel with another experienced fighter it was about as useful as a twig.

He runs a hand through his loose curls and wipes the dirt from his face. Over by the stables, Sansa is sitting on a bale of hay, sewing details on a new gown while Lonna and Aswyn groom an old mare. She's talking to the baby again- he can tell from the way she smiles and runs her fingers across her belly. It enchants him and set his heart ablaze. The gods might have seen fit to kill him, but they gave him Sansa Stark, and for that he would forgive anything.

“I can hear you thinking,” Arya adds. “It’s annoying.”

“Can you? I thought Bran was the one who knew everyone’s secrets.” Jon sheaths Longclaw and fixes his tunic.

“If he knew what went on in your head, he’d be disgusted. I might not be a three-eyed raven, but it’s pretty clear to see that you’re completely obsessed with Sansa,” says Arya. She waves to her sister, who offers a smile in return, before heading into the armory to put back her sword. Someone’s footsteps crunch in the snow behind him.

“Your grace, there’s a rider at the gate. Says he’s looking for the king but he’s not carrying any banners. Should we let him in?” asks a young squire. Jon nods his approval. The old gates rumble as they part, allowing a man on a black horse to enter the courtyard. A hood obscures his face, but is pulled back by the wind as he dismounted. He's tall and handsome, with black hair and a rough beard.

“What brings you to Winterfell?” says Jon, striding up to him with a cautious hand on Longclaw.

“You must be the king, then,” says the man. “I’m looking for someone, your grace.”

“There are many men in the North.”

“She’s not a man,” he says. “At least that’s what she told me.”

Arya trots up behind Jon. “What’s this all abo-”

“Arya?” The man gapes at her, eyes full of wonder.

“I thought you were dead,” Arya whispers. She pauses, then throws herself onto him in a fit of joy and tears. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her forehead, easily lifting her off the ground.

“How did you get away from the Brotherhood?”

“Not important! How did you get away from the Red Witch?”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?” Sansa asks, having ventured up to Jon’s side curiously. Arya pries herself off the newcomer reluctantly.

“This is Gendry. Gendry, this is my sister Sansa and her husband Jon,” she says. Sansa’s eyebrow arches.

“Oh, so this is Gendry? I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says with a grin. Arya’s cheeks turn dark red.

“Shut up!”

“Pleasure to meet you, mi’lady, mi’lord,” says Gendry, bowing awkwardly. “I hope it wouldn’t be much trouble if I could stay here at Winterfell. My father was a king, but I’m just a bastard looking to make a life.”

Jon shakes his hand. “Well, then. One bastard to another, welcome to the North.”

Over the next few days, it seems like Arya can barely pry herself away from Gendry. He is invited to breakfast, where she sits right next to him and listens with rapture as he tells them about his journeys across Westeros. Jon takes an interest in his talent as a blacksmith and spends an afternoon with him in the forges while Arya sits on a fence and watches intensely.

It isn’t long until Sansa happens to be passing the stables in search of Lonna and Aswyn, when she sees her sister standing on her tiptoes to place a chaste kiss on the blacksmith’s lips.

 _“Have you ever done that before?”_ Gendry asks.

 _“No. Are you saying it was bad?”_ Sansa can hear the defensive huff in Arya’s voice.

_“I’m saying that you need practice.”_

_“You’re stupid, you know that?”_ Gendry leans over and kisses her gently, which is effective in silencing her complaint. Grinning from ear to ear, Sansa slips away in the darkness. A long time ago, in what seemed like another life, her father had promised her a kind, gentle, noble, brave man to marry. Her mother had promised her she'd be wed to a lord, prince, or king. She wonders what their parents would think if they saw their daughters falling into the arms of honorable, dark-haired bastard boys. Sansa and Arya were more alike than they cared to admit.

* * *

IV.

It's a pleasant, clear morning. Thought it's grey outside, the snow has stopped and the wind blows quieter. Sansa stretches her arms while Lonna and Aswyn sort out her clothes. They lay out an outfit of dark plum and silver.

“Are there any matters I should see to before breakfast?” she asks.

“No, your grace, I think the king’s taken care of everything,” says Lonna. 

All of a sudden, a sharp, blinding pain strikes her. She grasps the edge of the bed and tries desperately to keep herself upright. Lonna rushes over to help her.

“Aswyn, get the king!” she says. “Sansa, what’s wrong? Is it the baby? Are you going to be fine?” Sansa sucks shallow breaths of air through gritted teeth. She tries to count from one to ten in her head, but around four she starts to panic again. _My name is Sansa Stark,_ she tells herself, _and the sky is blue and I like lemon cakes and my name is Sansa, I’m Sansa, I’m not going to die, I’m Sansa._

“Shit! Ahh!” she gasps, digging her nails into the mattress. _My name is Sansa Stark, this fucking hurts. My name - fuck, ow - is Sansa Stark, I live in Winterfell, I have three brothers and - FUCK - a sister, this hurts, this hurts, this hurts…’_

“Sansa!” Jon rushes to her side, sweeping his arms around her and kissing her cheek. “Sweetling, tell me what’s happening.”

“The baby’s coming,” she manages to choke out, proud of herself for keeping her language in check. He turns to Lonna and gives her a series of orders that she can’t make out over the obscenities in her head. Ghost is trotting curiously around the bed, trying to see what's causing her so much pain.

“FUCK!” she cries. Jon nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Hey, look at me,” he says, brushing aside her hair. “Don’t be scared. I’m right here with you, Sansa. You’re the love of my life, remember? You’re not leaving me anytime soon. I love you.”

Jon may have loved her, but he was the biggest idiot in the North. Lonna comes back half an hour later and tells them that she had to run all the way to Winter Town to find a midwife, only to discover that they were all recovering from an eventful visit to the local tavern.

“Does anyone know how to deliver a baby?” Sansa asks, squeezing Jon’s hand for dear life.

“I have an idea,” he says, “but you’re not going to like it.”

Their first child is born hours later at the start of a blizzard, delivered into Tormund Giantsbane’s hands while Sansa curses the old gods, the new gods, her parents, Robb, Jon, Bran, Arya, and any other person that comes to mind. She can barely hear the baby’s cries against the howling wind. Jon is weeping, Tormund is laughing, and she's still wondering if she's alive or not.

“She’s beautiful!” says Jon, eagerly taking the baby in his arms. “Sansa, she’s perfect. Look at her…” His voice cuts off and he wipes tears from his face.

“Never thought I’d see the day when Jon Snow bawled like a child,” Tormund says, helping Sansa clean up.

“It’s a girl?” she asks hesitantly.

“It’s a little girl. She’s so amazing, sweetling, look what we made,” he says, passing the little bundle to Sansa. Their daughter’s eyes are wide open, gazing up at her as she begins to quiet down. The few strands of hair on her head are somewhere between chestnut brown and auburn. Her nose wrinkles just like Jon’s. She's a spectacular combination of her mother and father. The thought brings tears to Sansa’s eyes, and she smiles with unreserved joy.

“I love her so much,” she says. “I’m afraid I might love her more than you.”

“What do you want to call her? We could use Catelyn, after your mother,” says Jon.

“My mother was awful to you. I want to name her after someone I admired. We could call her Margaret, after Margaery,” she suggests.

“My little Princess Margaret,” Jon whispers, stroking Margaret’s cheek. Amazement fills his face. It seems heartbreaking that they're in such a position after so many had died. If her father and mother and Robb hadn’t been killed, she and Jon would never have had a chance to be together. She would be Joffrey’s queen and he would be a man of the Night’s Watch. Sansa would have gone through the pain of every loss again, just so she could be with a man who loved her and their perfect child.

_“SANSA, LET US IN!”_

They sigh in exasperation. Jon kisses her forehead and goes to open the chamber door. Arya bursts inside in a flurry of limbs, followed by Bran being pushed along by Meera.

“So? Boy or girl?” says Arya, trying to regain her breath.

“Girl,” says Sansa. Arya cackles in delight and kicks Bran’s unfeeling leg.

“Ha! I win! You owe me.” Bran rolls his eyes.

“Fine, fine. I bet the next one will be a boy, though,” he says. Jon passes Margaret to him. She began to fuss again, and Bran awkwardly tries to rock her.

“I don’t know what to do. Meera, take her,” he says.

“What? No! I can’t hold a baby!” Meera takes a fast step backwards as Bran tries to hand Margaret over to her. Arya takes her instead and immediately begins chatting, as if the tiny baby could understand everything she's saying.

“...and I’m going to teach you how to use a sword and a bow. We can ride horses in the Wolfswood and come back after dark. Probably scare the shit out of your mother, actually, but it’ll be worth it,” she says. “Why aren’t the bells ringing? We all got bells when we were born.”

“Aye, you’re right,” says Jon. “I’ll-”

He's cut off by a rumble that shakes the entire room. Arya grabs the back of Bran’s wheelchair for balance. Margaret begins to cry again, and the startled reactions of people in the courtyard can be heard from the window. Earthquakes were unheard of in the North, but as Sansa looks over at Bran’s pale face, she knows that it's no natural phenomenon.

“Bran,” she says, “what’s wrong?”

“The Wall.” His voice dips to a whisper. The shaking beginsto diminish, and eventually the floor steadies. Arya gives Margaret back to Sansa.

“I need to find Gendry,” she says, sprinting away down the hall.

“I should be in the Godswood,” Bran adds. “Davos will be looking for you soon, Jon.”

“Congratulations. She’s very beautiful,” says Meera as an afternote, offering a sheepish wave while she wheels Bran away.

“You should go. People will need you,” says Sansa.

“Fuck the people. I’m staying right here,” Jon says. He pulls off his boots and slides into bed next to her, draping an arm across her shoulders and pressing his lips to the side of her head. Margaret seems peaceful with her parents watching over her. Sansa tries to imagine the woman she'll become. Perhaps she would like music and poetry, or maybe she would be a warrior like Arya. 

"I want ten more just like her," Jon tells her. "Gods, I've never seen something so good. She's amazing."

"My darling Margaret." Cersei Lannister had once told her that she would never love anything as much as her firstborn child. For once, Sansa can admit that the she-lion wasn't a complete liar. If the world was dark and terrible, then Margaret was a bright, silvery light. 

Her heart has never felt so whole.

* * *

V.

From her lofty perch on the ramparts, Sansa holds her daughter and watches as Winterfell was turns from a castle into a fortress. Men had been working day and night to repair the walls and build defenses to ward off the army of the dead. A bright display of banners hangs over the gates. Each house that had pledged their support to the war is represented, with the grey direwolf at the very top. The sigil of House Tully is the newest addition. Edmure and his forces had arrived a fortnight ago, kneeling and declaring for House Stark. As Sansa had discovered, Edmure was a kind but tired man. His son was nearly three, and his wife was expecting another child in a few moons. 

Another new arrival was completely unexpected. Three days before, a man, a woman, and their child had ridden into the courtyard on a farm wagon drawn by two grey stallions. Jon introduced them to her as Samwell Tarly, Gilly, and little Sam. Anyone who knew Jon had heard of Sam Tarly. Sansa found that he was a thoroughly pleasant person. 

"This is my wife, Sansa," Jon had said, waving her over. Sam bowed politely, and Gilly attempted a curtsy. 

"So good to meet you, my queen. Jon should consider himself lucky to be married to someone as lovely as yourself," said Sam. 

"Jon speaks so highly of you. It's good to meet you too, Sam," she had said. Jon and Sam went off to catch up. Sansa had taken Gilly to her room and gotten her measurements, letting her pick out a color of fabric for a new dress. It was becoming a sign of status in the North to be wearing one of Sansa's creations. While they talked about different sleeves, necklines, and outlines, little Sam had taken an interest in Margaret. She was only a few moons old, not yet able to talk, but he babbled incomplete sentences at her while she lay on Sansa's bed.

"Your grace?"

Sansa blinks and clears her head. "Yes, Aswyn?"

"Supper's being served. Brienne sent me to fetch you." She nods and follows the young girl back to the great hall. Candles are lit and shining, providing a source of warmth in the depths of winter. The high table had become crowded lately. Jon, Bran, Arya, Gendry, Meera, Edmure, Sam, Gilly, and little Sam are already eating when she arrives. 

"Have I missed anything?" she asks, pulling out a seat while balancing Margaret carefully. Jon reaches over to take the tiny girl into his arms. 

"This morning, I brought down a wild boar at the edge of the Wolfswood. Looks like I'm a better hunter than Robert Baratheon," says Arya. "Care for some food, sister?"

"No, I'm not hungry. Pass the water." Arya hands her the pitcher and she pours herself a cup. 

"Sam, I was thinking about mounting some defenses over the gates. D'you think you could come up with measurements?" Jon asks. He bounces Margaret on his lap, while she grasps his fingers.

"Oh, of course. I was always better with numbers than you," says Sam. Arya snorts rather loudly.

"And Gendry, would you be able to make some armor for Tormund? He'll need something light. Still won't accept the fact that furs don't stop arrows."

"Yeah, I just need good metal," Gendry says. He pops a berry into his mouth. 

"I'll find some. Sans, are you sure you don't want anything to eat? It's not poisoned, I swear," Jon says. She shakes her head and waves it off. 

"I'm fine, just not very hungry."

"Try some bread. It's just out of the oven. Tastes delicious." He plucks a roll from a basket of bread and handed it to her. With a minute's hesitation, she bites into it. The taste is amazing, but it quickly leaves an uneasy feeling in her stomach. The smell of roasted boar begins to overwhelm her. While everyone else is talking about the latest additions to Winterfell's defenses, she excuses herself and hurries back to the Lord's chambers as fast as she can without running.

Sansa opens the door and collapses over the chamber pot, throwing up the contents of her stomach. 

"Are you sick, Sansa?" Lonna is in the doorway, her eyebrows knitted together. Sansa wipes her mouth off and tries to sit upright.

"No, sweet girl, I'm fine," she says. Lonna helps her clean up and change into her nightgown, talking quietly to distract her from her worries.

"Aswyn and I went to play with the horses today. The stablemaster says the pretty grey one is going to have a baby, and we can't bother her. Last time we were in the stables, Aswyn fell over and started crying. She spooked some of the horses. But she didn't get hurt. All she did was scrape her knee, and there was no blood," she says, tying the laces on the back of the dress. 

_No blood. No blood. No blood._

As she lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, Sansa bites her lip and growls.

_"Fuck."_

* * *

VI.

Jon sets his gloves on the desk and hangs his cloak by the door. He undoes the cord that holds back his hair and runs a hand across his scalp. Next to come off are his boots, followed by his leather jerkin. He goes over to kneel before Sansa, who is sitting stiffly in a chair by the hearth.

“You weren’t at dinner,” he says, kissing her hand.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“Brienne told me you haven’t eaten anything today. I’m worried about you, sweetling.” Sansa bites her lip and turns her head away. Tears threaten to spill from her eyes. Her hair is a tangled mess, and she wears an old nightgown that's fraying at the edges.

“Look at me, Sansa. I love you. Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it. I promise,” says Jon, squeezing her fingers with his. Sansa takes a long, thin breath, rubbing her chapped lips together.

“I’m pregnant again,” she whispers.

“I don’t understand. That’s a good thing,” says Jon, smiling up at her. She shakes her head, trying to hide her tears behind her hair.

“You’re going off to fight the army of the dead! Can’t you see that if you die, our family will _never_ be whole again? What if you fall and I have to tell our children that they won’t ever know their father? It’s _cruel_. I can’t do this without you. You’re the good one, and I’m the terrible one. I’m a terrible person, Jon, I’m awful…”

“Shh, love, you’re scaring me,” he says, leaning up to kiss her forehead. “You are _not_ a bad person. You’re so brave, Sansa. Never confuse those things. Just because you’re scared or angry, it doesn’t make you evil.”

“I’m the reason father died,” she says, “which means I’m the reason why mother and Robb and Rickon and Margaery and all of the rest of them died. How can I even live with myself? And what if something happens to us? What if Margaret has to live with the weight of my failures on her back? I’m horrible, Jon. You should never have married me.”

“Don’t you dare say that. I _chose_ you, Sansa, and I’ve never regretted that decision. We need to have hope if we’re going to survive,” says Jon. 

“I don’t even know what to think anymore. It’s so hard to see what matters.” Sansa curls her fingers around his and holds on even as she shakes.

“I love you. And I love our daughter. And I will love any child you give me. That’s all I know. That’s all that matters to me.” With that, he kisses her desperately, as if the world is ending around them. Her lips taste like salt and blood, and perhaps she's gripping his hair too tight, but he's lost all sense of caring.

“I’m sorry,” says Sansa, pulling away suddenly, “I don’t know why I said all that. I’ve been so frustrated for no reason.” All of her worries seem small, childish, and trivial. Feeling an exhausting abundance of emotions was said to be a sign of pregnancy.  _Well, it's beyond doubt now._

Jon laughs and peppers soft kisses over her cheeks. “You don’t need to apologize, Sansa. You make me the happiest man in the world.”

“I think it’s going to be a boy,” she says, moving Jon’s hand to the almost unnoticeable bump on her abdomen. He traces flowery lines on her nightgown, making her shiver.

“A boy. And what will we name our little prince?”

“I thought of Eddard. But only if you like it.”

“It’s perfect.” He smiles at her belly. “Hello, Ned. You’re going to be a great man someday. Your mother and I will make sure of it. You’re so loved, my boy.” Jon kisses her navel and looks at her with big brown eyes.

“What is it?” she askes, stroking her thumb across his beard.

“You’re beautiful, Sansa Stark. I'm so fucking lucky you're mine." 

* * *

VII.

They wake on late the day of the queen’s arrival. Dim, cold light is pouring through the windows, making Sansa blink and groan. She rubs her eyes and turns over, coming face to face with a sleeping Jon. He looks peaceful, shrouded in white pillows and dark quilts. If they didn't have a queen to meet and a war to win, she would've laid back down and drifted back to sleep.

“Jon,” she says, her voice groggy. “ _Jon_.” He doesn’t move. Ghost lies beside Margaret's cradle, drowsily guarding the sleeping girl. He had become rather fond of her as she grew. He would often let her grip his fur as she took wobbly steps towards her proud parents.

“Wake up, Jon.” She shakes his shoulder gently. He groans and opens his eyes reluctantly.

“I… morning, Sans.”

“Good morning, my love.” She kisses his forehead. “Dreaming of something nice?"

“Aye, because I dreamed of you,” says Jon. He settles his hand over the bump on her abdomen. A childlike delight spreads over his face.

“Can you feel it?” Sansa asks.

“He’s kicking,” says Jon. He moves his fingers to follow the tiny fluttering.

“He’ll be strong like his father.”

“Or maybe fierce and brave like his mother.” Sansa laughs and leans over to kiss his lips.

“We should get changed. Daenerys will be here soon,” she says. Jon bites his lip and nodded. She had set out clothes for both of them, which are arranged in neat piles on a chair by the hearth. They go about their different routines. Jon tends to his wild mane of black curls while Sansa washes her face in the water basin. Margaret begins to wake as they get dressed. Ghost is immediately alert, poking his nose inside her crib to check on her. 

“Sansa?”

“Yes?”

“What do I say?” Jon smooths out his tunic for the hundredth time. His hair is meticulously groomed and tied back, and he wears a new cloak with direwolves embroidered boldly around the hem. Even without a crown, he commands respect with his presence.

Sansa finishes twisting her hair into its usual style. “You should welcome her to Winterfell and offer your sincere hospitality. Shake her hand if she offers, but don’t bow. You’re equals, which means you shouldn’t have to make any gestures of courtesy. Address her as ‘your grace’ unless she tells you otherwise. When she’s done saying what she needs to, introduce everyone else by rank and official title.”

“You make it sound easy,” Jon mutters. “I can’t even remember my own titles.”

“You’re the Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. I’m the Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, Margaret and Arya are Princesses of Winterfell, Bran is a Prince, and Ser Davos is the Lord Hand. If you forget anything, just smile at her like you’re expecting her to say something.” She adjusts her dark grey gown and fixes her cloak around her shoulders. She dresses Margaret in a turquoise outfit with green flowers on the hem. She lifts her and kisses her cheeks.

“Look at you, darling! My perfect little princess,” she says.

“Bababaaa,” is Margaret’s reply. Her curly red hair shines like copper in the candlelight.

“I agree completely,” Jon says to their daughter. “Your mother looks beautiful.” They walk down to the courtyard together, where the Northern court has assembled. The Stark banner waves from every tower.

Several armored soldiers ride ahead of the royal party. The three-headed dragon is emblazoned on their chest plates. A wheelhouse driven by two grey steeds follows. The last to enter are the most notable. Sansa recognizes Theon immediately and silently thanks the gods he's safe. He rides next to a young woman with short tawny hair, who she assumes was his sister.

Daenerys Targaryen enters the courtyard astride a white horse that matches her hair, which is braided in an intricate eastern style. She wears an outfit of black and crimson and a cape that blows in the wind. A silver crown adorns her head. She carries herself with dignity like any lady was trained to do. There's little emotion displayed on her porcelain face. The queen is a woman made from stone. Sansa hadn’t expected anything more.

A soldier and a woman follow her towards the anxious Northern family. The woman wears a pin with the same dragon insignia that the queen sports, most likely a symbol of her importance to the queen. She steps forward to address Jon.

“This is Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Princess of Dragonstone, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” says the queen’s handmaiden. Sansa watches nervously as Daenerys regards Jon.

“Jon Snow,” he says, holding out his hand. “King in the North.”

The dragon queen raises an eyebrow. The courtyard is silent, and the tension is thicker than boiled leather.

“We’ll have to find you some more titles,” says Daenerys. She shakes Jon’s hand. “Good to meet you, Jon.”

Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. _Thank the gods._

“Your grace, allow me to introduce my wife. This is Queen Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell,” says Jon. Sansa inclines her head respectfully, relieved that she's not expected to curtsy. Her knees already ache enough.

“Welcome, your grace,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to receive you.”

“And a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, your grace. I’m told you are a woman of remarkable talent.” Sansa is certain the queen’s words are a false courtesy. The fake smile she wears is as warm as ice. Nevertheless, Sansa feigns gratitude. She has been playing the game for far too long to make missteps.

“This is my sister, Princess Arya, and my brother, Prince Bran. And our daughter, Princess Margaret Stark,” says Sansa. Daenerys acknowledges each individual before turning back to Jon.

“We’ve come a long way. Perhaps a meal would be in order,” she says.

“Certainly. The great hall is this way, your grace,” says Jon.

“Please, both of you,” says the queen, “my family calls me Dany.”

 _My family calls me Dany._ In her letter, Daenerys had insisted that Jon should not claim any blood ties to House Targaryen, but now she seems welcome to the idea of bonding with the North. Something isn’t right. Sansa can feel it in her bones. Jon leads the dragon queen into the keep and Sansa pushes through the crowd to find Theon. He's fixing the saddle on his horse, fiddling with a difficult strap.

“Theon?”

He spins around and smiles. “Sansa!"

“You look better,” she comments, gesturing to the armor he wears. It's proudly stamped with the kraken sigil.

“And you… well, you’re a mother now,” he says.

“Would you like to hold her?” Theon purses his lips nervously. “She’s been waiting to meet her Uncle Theon.” He takes Margaret in his arms with painful delicacy. She babbles happily and reaches a chubby fist towards him. Theon offers one of his fingers, which she wraps her tiny fingers around.

“She’s amazing,” he says.

“We’re expecting another soon,” she adds. Margaret babbles happily, as if she were greeting him with an amazing story. He chuckles softly. Sansa has to wonder if it's the first time he's truly smiled since before his captivity.

“I think she’s going to look just like you,” says Theon, “with the eyes and the hair. I thought she’d be like Jon, but she’s all you.”

“You should come inside and eat. We have so much to talk about.”

“I shouldn’t. Everyone remembers how I betrayed Robb. They’ll never forgive me for that,” he says, giving Margaret back.

“And now everyone knows how you turned against the Boltons and saved me. Don’t make yourself a villain,” says Sansa. She reaches out and squeezes his hand.

“Tyrion and the Kingslayer are staying in the Winter Town brothel. They didn’t want to be any trouble to you. If you like, I can take you to visit them.”

“I’ll write a message. It will be less trouble. But thank you, Theon. You’ve done so much for me,” she says. “Let’s go join the others.” They go inside together. Theon keeps his eyes to the ground, avoiding contact with other people. The great hall is nearly full, with lords and warriors from every part of Westeros crowded around the long tables and leaning against the walls. Maids pass out bread, soup, and ale. At the high table, Jon is seated next to Daenerys. She seems more relaxed, but Jon is clearly nervous. He clutches a tankard in a vice-like grip. Theon finds a spot against the wall while Sansa joins Daenerys and Jon.

“Ah, Sansa. Your husband was just telling me about your talent for sewing. Did you make that dress yourself?” asks Daenerys.

“Yes, I make all of my own clothes. My mother taught me how to sew, and it reminds me of her,” says Sansa. She waves over a serving girl, who pours her a glass of water.

“It’s quite lovely. You shall have to make something for me. I never did learn the skills of a lady.” The queen takes a demure sip of ale. Her face twists ever so slightly, and she swallows with difficulty. Sansa bites her lip so as not to laugh. A woman who walked through fire can’t seem handle a strong Northern brew.

"When you have three dragons and several kingdoms to conquer, it must be hard to find free time," Sansa comments.

"They're much like children, I find. Always far off, roaming around where they shouldn't be. Such free spirits." So that's why none of the fabled dragons had made an appearance. They didn't like listening to their mother.

The feast progresses awkwardly. Sansa tries to maintain casual conversation with Daenerys, who seems to know nothing about the North. Any anecdote Sansa may have shared is met with a smile that hides her confusion. Daenerys introduces them to Missandei, her handmaiden, counselor, and translator, and Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied army. She is also reacquainted with Lord Varys.

"Your grace, Lord Tyrion does wish to send his highest regards. Unfortunately, certain circumstances would make it problematic for him to be in the midst of a Northern court. I, however, am pleased to see you are well. My deepest sympathies are with you after the horrors you suffered at the hands of the Boltons. I hear you disposed with Lord Baelish as well. The whole realm should thank you for it," the spider says. Sansa can feel Daenerys stiffen. She had entirely forgotten about Littlefinger.

"Thank you, my lord," says Sansa. She nudges Jon's leg with her foot.

"Excuse us, your grace," he says. She takes his arm and leads him into a small passageway outside of the hall.

"You need to get her to trust you," she whispers. "Try to find her weaknesses. If we win this war, I don't want to start another." 

"Aye, but how? You're the one who's good at talking," he hisses. Sansa kisses his cheek.

"You can be clever. Just overthink everything and you'll figure something out. Gods, my back hurts," she says, clutching her sides. "I'm going to lie down. Our son is taking all of my energy these days." Jon chuckles, bending over to press his lips to the growing bump.

"Are you sure you want me doing all the thinking?"

"Relax. Be charming. I have faith in you," she says. He grasps her hand before returning to the feast. Sansa watches him with a flurry of emotions. Jon wasn't meant to play the game of thrones, but by the gods, he would try. Taking his seat next to Daenerys, he leans back in his chair and begins a conversation with a handsome smile that she falls completely in love with all over again.

A tiny kick rouses her from her thoughts. Sansa rubs a hand over her belly.

"Oh, shut up," she says with a grin.

* * *

VIII.

Three days later, Sansa opens the door to the Lord’s chambers and screams.

“ _Arya, what are you doing in here?_ ” she says. Her sister is in her smallclothes, digging through her wardrobe. Margaret is sitting on the bed, watching in confused boredom. Arya barely regards her as she walks inside.

“I need a dress, but most of yours don’t fit me,” she says, holding up a black and grey dress with a patterned skirt. She examines it in the mirror and tosses it aside.

“What do you need a dress for?”

“I’m getting _married_ , idiot.”

Sansa gapes, wide-eyed. “You’re _what_?”

“I know it’s a bit rushed, but Gendry and I really want to be with each other. I just… I love him.” She pauses and smiles at her reflection. “Besides, father always said he’d want to make a good match for both of us. You’ve got Jon, now I’ve got someone of my own.”

“That’s beautiful, Arya, but does this have to happen right now?” Sansa says. She scoops up Margaret, who begins playing with a few strands of her hair.

“Of course it does! The army leaves in a day or two. I can’t be married to someone’s who dead, can I?” Arya examines a dark gold gown that Sansa had made but never worn. It gets discarded with the growing pile on the floor.

The next dress is familiar. Made of dark blue, it has a simple shape with intricate embroidery at the top. A direwolf is proudly displayed in grey and gold thread. Sansa can remember wearing it when they took back Winterfell and when she sat at Jon’s side as he was proclaimed the King in the North.

“I like this one. Help me with the laces?” Sansa sets Margaret in her crib and helps Arya fit into the dress. It's a bit long, and the sleeves reach down to her palms, but the content expression on her sister’s face makes Sansa smile.

“Right. You look lovely. Shall we go?”

“Yeah- don’t forget Margaret.” Sansa hoists her daughter onto her hip and follows Arya into the hall. They pass Brienne and Podrick, who give them a curious look, and Davos, who offers a friendly wave. Arya turns down a dimly lit passage which takes them through the kitchens and right outside the Godswood. A cold gust of wind blows them backwards, and they trek through the snow and ice to the Weirwood tree.

“I’ve got the papers!” says Jon, waving a scroll at Arya. “Daenerys didn’t like the idea of legitimization, but I told her Gendry’s not going to be usurping anyone - is that Sansa’s dress?”

“Yes, idiot, you know I don’t actually have any dresses of my own. Shall we get started?”

There are only a handful of people in attendance. Bran, Meera, Ghost, and Theon are huddled off to the side, trying to keep themselves from getting covered in snow. Gendry stands beneath the rusty red leaves, dressed in a new outfit that looked suspiciously like Jon’s.

“Who comes before the old gods on this day?” asks Jon. Arya jams an elbow into Sansa’s side.

“ _Your line, idiot._ ”

“I - oh! Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell, comes here to be wed. Who begs her hand?”

“Lord Gendry Baratheon. Who gives her hand?”

“Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Queen in the North, and her beloved sister.” That earns a snort from Arya.

“Princess Arya, do you take this man?”

“I take this man.”

“Then, in the eyes of - gods, can’t you wait?” Jon says as Arya yanks on Gendry’s collar and kisses him passionately.

“Are we going straight to the bedding, then?” says Bran in a flat tone. He sighs and crosses his arms. “Let’s go, it’s freezing out here.” Gendry sweeps Arya into his arms, muttering something to her that can’t possibly be appropriate.

“Please don’t tear that dress,” says Sansa, “I happen to like it.” As she and Jon follow the bride and groom out of the Godswood, Margaret pipes up with a grin.

"Papa, no!"

Jon freezes. "What is it? What did I do? Sansa, what's wrong?" Sansa laughs and keeps walking.

"She's trying to say  _snow,_ I think. We've got ourselves quite a brilliant little mind. She picks up on words so quickly," she says. 

"Snow," Margaret tries, rolling the word off her tongue. "No. Snow. Snow."

"Don't tell Sam. He'll steal her away and make her a dusty old scholar," says Jon. Back inside the keep, they shed their snow-covered cloaks. Podrick and Lonna are waiting for them.

"Your grace, you were asking about a way to get the Lannisters into Winterfell? Lonna says she might've found something," says Podrick. Jon gives Sansa a sideways look, but says nothing. He takes Margaret and goes into the great hall. 

"What is it?" Sansa asks. She leads them back to the Lord's chambers.

"There's a drainage shaft in the crypts that empties the water that builds up in there. It comes out behind some trees and from there, it's only a ten minute's walk to Winter Town. I could get in and out that way, if someone can open the grate on the outside," Lonna explains. Once they're in the chambers, Sansa rolls out a small scroll of parchment and writes a short message.

"Use that way to get in and out of Winterfell, but don't bring them with you. I want to make sure it works. If you get into Winter Town, give this note to them. Don't let anyone important see you. If the Northern lords find out I'm dealing with the Lannisters, they'd turn on me faster than you can blink." She slips the parchment into Lonna's pocket. "Be safe."

"You really think you'd get in trouble for inviting Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime into the castle? They're not completely bad, I think," says Podrick. 

"I know that and you know that," says Sansa, "and Brienne knows it. But if a Lannister always pays his debts, a Northerner always holds his grudges."

* * *

IX.

It's nearly dark when the army prepares to leave. Sansa clutches Margaret to her chest as she walks through the courtyard. Over by the forges, Gendry is holding Arya as she says her farewells. Bran is already back in the Godswood, presumably with Meera at his side. Every fighting man is collecting dragonglass weapons and heavy armor, mounting horses and bidding goodbye to their families.

Brienne approaches her and kneels like a true knight. "My queen, I ask for your blessing."

"May the gods protect you, Brienne of Tarth." She rises to her feet and offers a final bow before heading over to the gates, where Podrick is preparing her horse. Sansa passes Tormund and Davos, whom she had asked to keep Jon safe. Lonna and Aswyn come up to her, dressed in matching blue dresses that she had made just a week before. 

"A message from Lord Tyrion," says Lonna, passing her a small shred of parchment. There are only a few lines, hastily scrawled out in black ink.  _Sansa- Jaime is going off to fight, but I will stay behind to help you in any way I can. Tell me how I can get into Winterfell. Tyrion._

"Find him tonight and bring him to me. You know the way," says Sansa. The girls curtsy and scurry away. She sees Jon out of the corner of her eye. He's speaking with Theon before he notices her. He may have carried himself like a king and a warrior, but his face screams with silent remorse.  _Don’t cry, silly girl,_ she tells herself. Jon says farewell to Theon and approaches her with a sad smile.

“Sansa.”

“Jon.”

He takes Margaret in his arms and kisses her forehead. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. Papa’s coming back. You take care of your mother. I love you, Margaret Stark.”

"Papa, hello," she coos at him, grabbing at his fur cloak. Sansa wishes she could cling to her husband forever and keep him within the old walls of the castle. If she could turn back time, she would have fought tooth and nail to keep herself from going south. When people left Winterfell, they had a tendency to not come back. She prays that this time would be different. 

“Look after Gendry and Brienne. Don’t do anything stupid,” says Sansa. Trying to smile was impossible, and she feels hot tears slide down her cheeks. Jon wipes them away with gentle hands.

“Sansa Stark, you are the love of my life,” he says, pressing his forehead against hers, “and the light of my world. I can only pray that the gods give me strength to keep you safe." 

"You have my heart. It's been broken so many times before. Don't you dare break it again. Come back to me. Come back to  _us._ I love you," says Sansa. She's crying in earnest when she kisses him, and can feel him shaking under her touch. He's crowned in snow, which lands in little white specks and fades to nothing. 

“Promise me that you’ll win.”

“I promise.” Although their words may be hollow, Sansa allows herself to believe that a promise made was a promise kept. Good people could keep their vows.

“When you come back, we'll be a proper, happy family," she says. Jon passes Margaret back to her. They gaze into each other's eyes, letting a fragile peace settle between them. He presses his lips to hers again, savoring the sweet taste of her mouth. 

"I love you," he whispers when they parte. Pausing only for a second, he turns and strides over to his horse. Sansa wonders if her mother had felt the same when Ned Stark left Riverrun for Robert's Rebellion. She had a babe in her belly and the threadbare hope that the next time they met would be in the high spirits of victory. As he approaches the gates, Jon turns back and waves.

“Can you wave goodbye to papa?” says Sansa bouncing Margaret on her hip.

“Bye bye,” Margaret says, shaking her tiny hand in the air. Jon’s proud grin is the last thing she sees before he disappears out of Winterfell. Slowly, the courtyard empties until the last people left are wives, children, and those who can’t fight. Sansa hears a cough behind her. Arya's eyes are bloodshot, but she maintains a neutral expression.

“I’m going to pray,” she says. “Stupid trees have never done anything for me, but it can’t hurt to ask.” She sniffs and gives one last wistful look toward the gate. Her cloak blows in the wind like water. Sansa turns to climb the stairs that lead to the ramparts.

“Mama,” says Margaret.

“What is it, sweetling?”

"I'm cold." She wraps her cloak around the both of them. Margaret snuggles into her shoulder and yawns.

The faint shapes of men and horses make their way over the snow-covered moors. A faint hint of light trickles out from behind a cloud. Down in the courtyard, she can hear the gates being barricaded. Maids are lighting torches around the towers and young squires set up the defenses. 

“Papa,” says Margaret. She begins to fuss and look around, as if Jon could be hiding just out of view.

“He’ll be back. He always comes back.” Sansa kisses her daughter’s cheek and hums softly. The horizon grows dark. Like embers of a fire, the last specks of light die away and fade to black. A howling wind picks up and sweeps across the desolate land. It is every part as terrifying as it was in the stories she had hated as a child. Sansa turns and quickly heads into the keep. Darkness was bringing death.

The long night had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agh! there ya go! one jonsa baby here and one on the way. this chapter covered like, a little over a year and a half but i am so tired so i didn't write all of that. but of course i had to get some gendrya in there because they're fucking adorable and i need jon and gendry to be bffs. also, daenerys is there because she has to be. meh. like i said, i finished this at 3 in the morning today and i am fuckin tired kiddos.  
> ALSO DID YOU GUYS SEE THE TRAILER because jeeeesus heck i have so many feelings.  
> i feel like it's important to mention that i am going to COMPLETELY disregard the "leaks" and anything in the trailer because this is my story goddammit. so all of that shit about jon going south is lies to me.  
> ummm i think that's everything. in the next chapter, we're gonna GO TO WAR. aww shit. do you guys think that baby #2 is gonna be ned like i promised, or am i a complete liar who wants the world to drown? the answer will shock you! stay tuned for chapter three (and follow me on tumblr @wintermellons for updates and shitposting). au revoir.

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah! heck! wow! there we go! chapter one! expect chapter two sometime in the near future. don't worry. unless the feedback for this is super bad, i don't have any plans to discontinue it. i'm seriously excited about where this is going. let me know if you liked it! i have finals coming up and i could use the positivity!  
> lots of love,  
> mel


End file.
